A Sea of Shattered Glass

by Kyla Stone

  “If I didn't have the right connection, a loyal friend to help me out, I would have nothing. No security, no job with benefits, no way to put a roof over me and my brother's head.” He paused in his pacing, leaned against the ladder and swallowed a swig of water. “Some American dream.”

  “What about your parents?”

  His expression softened. “They tried their best, always. My dad worked in construction before most things got automated. Even after working all day, he'd come home and cook dinner for us. Ma hated cooking, but Dad enjoyed it. He made arroz con habichuelas, simple rice and beans, but he could make them taste amazing. One time it was Micah's birthday. He was ten, I think. And Ma decided to make his favorite tostones, fried plantains, but she got distracted reading one of her books. Next thing, the fire alarm was blaring, the plantains were blackened, and she was beating at the billowing smoke with her paperback.”

  “That’s a wonderful memory.”

  “I’m telling you this because she was real—a real person with real feelings, not a statistic, not a number, not a cost-benefit analysis sheet. Ma got sick when I was fourteen. She'd be asleep when we got home from school. Then her hair started falling out. Insurance wouldn't touch any of the drugs that might have fixed her—like your dad's cure. Too damn expensive. Do you have any idea what it's like to know there's a cure out there, but no one will give it to you?”

  His voice snagged. He took another swig of water and capped the bottle, his hands trembling. “My dad, he just . . . he lost it. He gave up. We used to work on this train set down in the basement. He'd whittle the houses and these little wooden trains for Micah and me to play with. But after . . . He started taking Silk to cope, to get through the day. He stopped doing things little by little. Cooking, cleaning, whittling, working. Even eating, at the end. You ever watch a man starve himself to death? That's what Silk does. Micah and I watched them both die.”

  Every word was a hot poker piercing her gut. Her worries over Julliard’s rejection and pleasing her implacable father were so inconsequential, they seemed obscene. “Gabriel, I'm sorry.”

  He stared at her, shadows haunting his face, so many dark emotions swirling in his gaze. “What would you know? You don’t know anything.”

  It was true. She didn’t know. Whatever problems she had, her privilege and her wealth saved her from the worst of it. She’d been selfish, consumed with her own world. “I really am sorry.”

  Anything else she'd thought she was going to say—to appear pathetic, to garner his sympathies, to manipulate him—turned to ash on her tongue.

  32

  Willow

  A low moan escaped Willow's lips.

  Zia stared off at nothing, her eyes glassy and unseeing.

  Willow tried to reach beneath the shattered coffee table to administer CPR on her sister's body, even as her brain told her, she's dead, and her heart screamed, I’m sorry! Don't leave me!

  She inched forward, her hands and bare knees scraping against needles of broken glass buried in the carpet. She didn't care. She didn't feel any pain. Her pulse throbbed in her fingertips, her belly, her throat. Her heart seized in her chest.

  She held her sister's arm and pulled herself closer, until they were face to face. Zia’s skin was cool to the touch, clammy and rubbery like some unreal thing, like the stupid robot skin that gave her a shivery rush of revulsion if she looked too closely. Humanlike, a proximity, an imitation—but not human. Not alive. Not anymore.

  I don’t want you around. The last words she ever spoke to her sister, so angry and ugly. Words she didn’t even mean. Zia didn’t know how sorry she was. Would never know. Willow would give everything she had to take it back, to get Zia back.

  Great shudders ripped through her body, wave after wave of grief rolling over her. Zia with her weird donkey laugh and obsession with turquoise, her loud, exuberant voice filling up every room. Optimistic, sweet, and silly Zia. Zia who only wanted to be like Willow, who only wanted Willow to pay attention to her.

  Willow rested her forehead against her sister's. The way they used to when they were kids, when Zia had a nightmare and crawled into Willow’s bed, nestling her tiny body against Willow’s. When all Willow had to do was say, “It’ll be okay,” and it was.

  Willow lay like that, gripping her sister's cold hand, staring into eyes that weren't Zia's eyes anymore and never would be again.

  The silent scream inside her would not stop. Would never stop. Would go on forever, and ever, and ever.

  33

  Micah

  “We're ghosts here,” Patel said. They crouched behind a line of six slot machines at the back of the casino. “No security cameras can catch this angle, only the internal casino surveillance cameras. We don't need to worry about those.”

  “Where are we going?” Micah asked.

  Jericho grabbed the fallen men's radios and clipped them to his own belt. “First, the CSO’s office to get a few more guns from the safe. Then the bridge. I need to secure Declan Black.”

  “What about the rest of the passengers and crew?” Micah still couldn't breathe properly, couldn't suck in enough oxygen to ease the tight, drowning feeling in his chest. He kept seeing that shadow falling over him, kept reliving the gut-wrenching rush of fear as his own death closed in.

  “We're outnumbered.” Jericho ran a hand across his close-cropped fade. “We'll be slaughtered if we try to retake one of the muster stations. My objective is getting Declan Black and his family off this ship. You just got damned lucky.”

  “But all those people—”

  “Are likely already dead.”

  Micah shook his head. “We have to at least try.”

  Jericho rose to his feet. “No, we don't. Every minute we delay increases the probability of detection.”

  “He's right,” Silas said. “A small group has a better chance of survival. This is no time to play the hero.”

  Anger zapped through Micah like an electrical current. “This is exactly the time to be a hero!” But no one listened to him.

  Jericho pointed at the bodies of the terrorists. “Put on their clothes. You can move through the ship without worrying about the cameras.”

  Silas's face twisted. “There's blood.”

  “Not much. Do it quickly. I'll cover you.”

  Silas and Micah stripped the combat gear and dark clothing off the bodies. Micah fought back waves of nausea as he moved dead limbs still soft and pliable. It was like changing a giant doll. Except the doll had been alive five minutes ago. This man had his own dreams, disappointments, regrets. His own family. People he loved.

  Micah peeled off the ski mask and sucked in his breath. The man was young, pimples still dotting his forehead. He was Gabriel’s age.

  “You aren’t going soft, are you?” Silas smirked as he strapped on a Kevlar vest.

  Micah ignored him, concentrating on removing his own clothes and redressing. The terrorist’s shirt had two small holes in the shoulder, the spatters of blood still wet. He gagged again, turning away to keep Silas from noticing.

  But his stomach roiled from more than the blood. He thought of Su Su, Javier, Chef Jokumsen, and all the other innocent people trapped in the muster stations by those monsters with guns. And Amelia, held against her will in the Oceanarium.

  He should tell Jericho about Amelia. Where she was, who was holding her captive. But the words jammed in his throat. To Jericho, Gabriel was nothing but a terrorist. Jericho would shoot him without a second thought. Micah couldn’t risk his brother’s death, not when he knew Gabriel would never hurt Amelia. He was mixed up in something awful, but he wasn’t a killer. Amelia was probably safer down there with him than up here, anyway.

  “What about a distress signal?” Micah asked instead. “The lifeboats each have one. We can activate the emergency beacon so the Coast Guard can rescue us.”

  “No time. Our priority is the bridge.”

  “We have to at least do something!”

  “Keep your voice dow
n.” Jericho cracked his knuckles. “We move out in one minute.”

  Chef Jokumsen had risked his own life so Micah could do something. He had to act. He couldn't stand by and do nothing. “Then I'll go myself.”

  Silas snorted. “You'll get yourself killed.”

  The ship pitched. Micah stumbled, then straightened. He shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “That's a risk I'll have to take.”

  “Suit yourself,” Silas said.

  Patel scratched his beard. “It would help to see how well-guarded the lifeboats are. And we don't know how long it'll take to regain the bridge. Successfully deploying an emergency call seems worth the time—and the risk.”

  Jericho narrowed his eyes, studying the map. He sighed. “We'll head to the CSO’s office and the bridge after the lifeboats. But it will be dangerous. I can't promise we won't walk into a death trap.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Micah said, sagging with relief. “You won't regret this.”

  “We'll see.” Jericho handed him a wicked-looking M4. “Don't use this unless you absolutely have to. You respect this. And whatever you do, don’t panic and shoot your own team in the back. You understand?”

  He nodded. Jericho rechecked the ship map on his wristband, then gave him quick, rapid fire instructions on how to use his new weapon and what to do if—when—they came under enemy fire. Run in a zigzag pattern. Find cover, but don't stay there too long. Be aware of tunnel vision. Don't spray and pray. Accurate fire wins the fight. The first shot will usually miss, it's the second and third shot that kills as the shooter adjusts his aim. “This is a baptism by fire. You ready?”

  Micah tightened his grip on the gun, trying to keep his hands from shaking. The cuts

  on his fingers reopened, leaving fresh red smears on the black metal. He could barely hear Jericho over the roaring in his ears.

  Finally, Jericho seemed satisfied. He motioned for them to move. Micah followed him, a little behind and to the left. Silas flanked him on the right, and Patel brought up the rear.

  The rifle was bulky and unwieldy and heavier than he'd thought. He held it with the butt pressed against his armpit, the muzzle pointed off to the right of his right foot, the way Jericho showed him. This way he could lift, aim, and shoot in one fluid movement. His stomach churned at the thought of shooting someone. A terrorist was still a human being, no matter how evil.

  They went up a flight of stairs to Deck Five and crept warily along the edges of the royal promenade, working their way toward the starboard side. They passed the Pink Reef Café, the brick patio scattered with overturned tables and chairs. The glass windows of every designer shop were broken, the display cases smashed, the jewelry, purses, and designer sunglasses gone. The racks of jewel-toned dresses were upturned, merchandise strewn across the floor.

  His feet crunched shards of shattered glass, china, and crystal from the shot-up

  chandeliers. Jagged pieces of ornate bronze panels had fallen from the ceiling high above them. The worst thing was the bodies. So many bodies. The terrorists hadn't given them a chance to make it to the muster stations. Hundreds of passengers were mowed down where they stood.

  Micah forced himself to look at the dead, whispering a prayer for each one. Some were dressed in beautiful gowns and tuxedos, others in shorts and flip flops. Every face was frozen in a rictus of terror. None of them believed they were going to die today. He passed by a boy with curly blonde hair, no older than ten.

  Micah’s finger trembled next to the trigger. How could God allow this?

  No, not God. How did the Yeats poem go? Man has created death. Men did this. Gabriel did this. Gabriel and his radicalized New Patriots. Gabriel hadn't planned this violence, but it had fallen upon them anyway. Violence begot violence. Death begot death. And this was where it ended. Not with one side winning, but with grief and suffering on both sides. With dead children.

  How many more would die before this was all over?

  34

  Willow

  The world was ending all around her, but for Willow, the world had already ended right here.

  No.

  Benjie.

  The thought drilled through the shock and the heart-wrenching grief cascading over her.

  The world was over for Zia. It should be over for Willow. Death would be a release, a relief, a just punishment for letting her own sister die—

  She groaned, closing her eyes. But her mind wouldn't let her. Move! It shrieked at her.

  Move!

  Half of her wanted to give up, to curl next to Zia and let the wave of blood and violence take her like it was taking everything else.

  But the other half of her was awake, grief-stricken but still alive. She couldn’t die now. She still had Benjie. He needed her.

  Slowly, her brain registered the sound of bullets and the shouting, lessened now. The battle was waning. If she was going to move, it had to be now. She longed to wrap her arms around her sister and never let go. Leaving her here, like this, her body just lying there, like trash—it felt like a betrayal. A desecration.

  “I'm sorry.” Her voice was clogged with sorrow and regret and grief. “I'm so sorry.”

  Every muscle in Willow’s body ached as she pulled herself to her hands and knees. Her palms burned from a dozen tiny cuts. Her knees left a swath of blood across the carpet.

  She had to focus on escape now. She had to save Benjie.

  She glanced toward the stage. Four men knelt in the carnage. One terrorist guarded either side, two others faced the hostages, screaming at them, the end of their rifles thrust in the hostages' faces. Most of the passengers were still seated, too terrified to flee, shocked rigid at the scene unfolding in front of them.

  Willow glanced back toward the right front exit. The doorway was only a half-dozen yards away. The exit sign blinked red above the door, one of the letters shorted out.

  A gunshot blasted. The first hostage went down, falling over backward like a giant sack of flour. She crouched, legs like coiled springs. She ignored the screaming in her brain, the agony of the glass still stuck in her palms and kneecaps, the roar of her pulse so loud it drowned out the rest of the world—

  Willow leapt to her feet and ran.

  Five feet. Ten. Tears stung her eyes, everything around her a blur.

  She cleared the doorway. No shots fired. No shouts directed her way.

  She fled down the hallway, searching frantically for the nearest stairwell. She raced up two flights of stairs before pausing on the landing, gasping. The only sounds were a few muffled screams from the Galaxy Lounge below. Think. She had to think.

  What should she do? Where should she hide? She touched her mother's wristband. She could get into any room. She should get below, into the crew quarters, and find a lowly cabin to hide out in until it was all over and the Navy SEALs, or whoever, came to save them. The pirates had no reason to go down there. The crew had nothing worth scavenging.

  Benjie. The thought shot through her as loud as if someone had shouted in her ear. She couldn’t hide. Not yet. She had to find the remaining parts of her family. Benjie first. Her mom would want her to go after Benjie. They’re your responsibility. Once she found them, they'd lie low until they were rescued, like López said.

  Someone would come for them. Every passenger on this damn ship was as rich as Midas. The whole U.S. Army would rescue them.

  She started to head up the stairs on tiptoe, as if that would make a difference.

  A sound.

  She craned her head, searching above and below, to the left and right. It came again. From below her. Footsteps. Someone was coming up the stairs. At least one, maybe more.

  She couldn't tell how far below her they were, and she couldn't risk peering over the railing. But they were coming closer. A male voice muttered something and another laughed.

  Adrenaline spiked through her veins. She ran out of the stairwell, praying she wasn't fleeing from the frying pan into the fire. She rounded the corner and pressed hersel
f against a brick façade wall.

  It was a little café, with a dozen small tables and bar stools beneath a trellis strung with fairy lights. She had the impression of wide open space around her and above her. Everything was dim and hard to see.

  She blinked, trying to get her eyes to adjust as she followed the wall to an alcove with a tall fronded plant. She crouched behind it, squeezing herself between the wall and the huge ceramic planter, adjusting the fronds to hide herself. It sucked as a hiding spot, but it would have to do. She forced herself to take several deep, steadying breaths as she peeked between the leaves.

  A mosaic tile pathway wound past the café into a stand of perfectly manicured trees and bushes, all lit from below with flickering lights that gradually changed colors from blue to red to pink to magenta. She’d reached the Coral Gardens. The ship's suite balconies rose up on either side of the four-story atrium.

  Far above her, the rain pounded against the transparent ceiling that let in the sun’s light and warmth on good days. There were no overhead lights, only dim atmospheric lighting to allow for stargazing on clear nights. This was not one of them.

  She was on the stern—the backside—of Deck Eight. What else was on Eight? She tapped her wristband twice and the holograph of the ship appeared. A bunch of cafes, high-end designer shops, and the art gallery were all placed strategically around the Coral Gardens—a huge park area with tile pathways, artfully placed waterfalls and streams, and little bridges winding through tropical trees, topiary bushes and plants shaped like a coral reef.

  This was the quietest deck, the one she'd avoided until now because it lacked any teen or kid activities. The decks above her held the bars and theaters, the casino and ice rink, the boardwalk, and the sundecks where anyone with a gun would see her a mile off.

  Once she reached the mid-stairwell, she could go all the way up to Deck Fourteen.